LITMIR.BIZ

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it's a present.’ He'd even topped the Citroen up with petrol. Was Max some kind of Godfather around here?

      Tired of arguing, Libby held out a packet of her homemade shortbread. Alan's eyes lit up.

      ‘You're a good woman.’ What was it the old wives used to say about the way to a man's heart being through his stomach?

      The road to Bath twisted through tiny villages, along a road too narrow for more than one car. Marina told her it was quicker by train, but Libby needed her own transport. She'd made up her mind to visit both the other members of Susie's old, defunct band, before Max returned. James, the keyboard player, lived just outside Bristol, and Guy, the violinist, lived in Bath.

      She'd thrown a ham salad into a Tupperware container before setting off, and she pulled over beside the Chew Valley Lake, to eat. She took a bite and screwed up her nose. The dressing didn't taste quite right. Maybe a little too much lemon juice? Or not enough honey? She'd make up another batch soon.

      It was days since she'd had time to potter around in the kitchen, experimenting. Once this business was over, she planned to lock herself in for hours and get on with devising recipes. Before long, she'd have to give Niles Fisher, the publisher, her answer about the book.

      Libby felt a twinge inside at the thought. She planned a series of excuses as she ate, opening the door to let a few rays of sunshine warm her. Dead bodies: that would do it. At least it had the advantage of being true, and Mr Fisher had no way of knowing the bodies in question were unrelated to Libby.

      She threw a crust of bread into the water. Excited ducks scrambled over one another. Libby took out a chunk of sultana cake. The ducks wouldn't get any of this, her favourite comfort food.

      Every last crumb eaten, she climbed back into the car, crunching gears in sudden excitement. Maybe Susie's old bandmate, Guy, would have some answers.

      His double-fronted Georgian house stood, white-painted, in a block of similar graceful homes. To Libby's surprise, the door flew open almost before she'd had time to drop the brass lion-head knocker, as if he'd been expecting her.

      The man's appearance took her aback. She'd been prepared for aging hippy long hair, flares or a tasselled waistcoat. Instead, his short, neat haircut, shirt, and the final touch, a silk tie with a Windsor knot, were conventional enough to have pleased Libby's parents. He was only a short step away from a cardigan.

      His lined face wore the slightly anxious look of a middle-aged man whose mirror proves his youth is disappearing fast. He led her inside.

      ‘Max rang to say you'd be coming.’

      So, it was Max who gave the game away. Annoying man. Libby had lost the element of surprise.

      ‘Anyway,’ Guy shrugged. ‘Susie was all over the local news. I thought I'd hear something from Exham. When's the funeral?

      Was the man upset? Libby couldn't tell. The pupils of his eyes were big and dark. He pushed wire-rimmed glasses further up a long nose and waved at a selection of wines and spirits on a breakfast bar.

      ‘We don't have a date yet. Not until after the inquest.’

      Guy nodded. ‘I'd like to be there for Susie. We had some good times together in the old days. Drink?’

      The huge, airy kitchen was clean and, unlike Guy himself, at the cutting edge of modern design. Libby flicked her gaze round the room, finding no sign of a wife or children among the uncompromising shine of black granite and glassy smooth white paint.

      She shook her head. ‘I'm driving, but I'd love a coffee.’

      ‘Ah. Good choice.’ Guy clattered around the huge, gleaming chrome of the coffee machine with milk jugs and coffee. Libby hid a smile. Kenco and hot water would have taken half the time.

      The coffee, when at last it arrived, was perfect. ‘So, you found Susie on the beach. That's sad. Not quite the dramatic end I'd expect of her. She'd have preferred something outrageous, like a mistimed bungee jump.’ When Guy smiled, he showed beautiful white teeth. They must be the result of the band's success in America. ‘Was it the drink that killed her?’

      There was no reason to hide the truth. ‘In fact, she had been drinking, but I'm afraid it looks like murder.’

      That caught the man's attention. He blinked. ‘Seriously?’

      Libby pressed on, glad to have dented his calm surface. Now, maybe he'd forget any prepared speeches. ‘There are a few suspects. I imagine the police will visit you, soon.’

      A flash of consciousness, a widening of the eyes, told Libby she'd hit a nerve. He shot a glance around the kitchen, and she realised what had seemed odd about him. His gaze unfocused, his eyes dark, his behaviour too casual.

      The man was stoned. Libby wondered where he kept the drugs.

      ‘Excuse me.’ He stepped outside the kitchen, into the hall, and called up the stairs. ‘Alvin?’

      ‘Yeah. What is it?’ A younger man, in his twenties, hair longer, mussed up, his sleeveless t-shirt showing muscled arms, leaned over the banister.

      ‘Clean things up, will you?’

      The younger man frowned, puzzled for a moment, then his brow cleared. ‘Right. OK.’

      Libby gulped down the coffee. She had to get her questions out before Guy cut the conversation short. He'd want time to clear the house of incriminating drug paraphernalia.

      ‘I just want to find out about Susie. What happened after all those albums, when she came back to Exham, and why? Those sorts of things.’

      He shrugged. ‘Don't ask me. Didn't know she was here. The band broke up years ago, and we all lost touch. We made a bit of money. I had enough to buy this place.’ He looked around the kitchen, beaming. ‘Bought a house for my mother, as well. She's in a care home, now, but she had a good few years.’

      ‘What about Susie's marriage?’

      The smile faded. He shrugged. ‘Usual showbiz thing. Mickey found a newer, younger model. You know – longer legs, blonder hair. Anyway, Susie lost her spark when…’

      He stopped, licked his lips and shot a sideways glance at Libby. She let the pause go on as she rinsed her cup and dried it, but Guy offered no more details.

      She'd have to prompt. ‘OK. I know about the little girl that died. Annie.’

      ‘Annie Rose, yeah. Cute little thing.’ The lines on Guy's face softened. Libby glimpsed a warmer, kinder man somewhere under the surface. ‘Broke Susie's heart when little Annie died.’

      ‘And Mickey's too?’

      ‘What? Oh, yeah, of course. He was upset. We all were. That's when Susie said she couldn't go on. We tried to talk her out of it, but who could blame her? Something like that cuts you right up. She left LA, went up north, heading for Canada. She had some sort of connections there; distant family, or something. She was a bit vague.’

      ‘Has she been in touch?’

      ‘Nope. Clean break. I came back to Bath, took an OU course in computing.’

      Libby laughed. ‘Computing? After life in a band?’

      He pushed his glasses up again. ‘Well, I'd always done the techie stuff. I played violin a bit, sure, but I preferred to tinker with the sound system.’ He shrugged again. ‘Not really cut out for travelling. It was good to get off the road and settle down.’

      ‘Apart from the drugs.’

      He shuffled his feet. ‘Just weed. Nothing heavy.’

      ‘Anything else you can tell me about Susie?’

      ‘She was a nice kid. If I'd known she was in England I'd have got in touch.’

      Alvin shambled into the kitchen, scratching at an unshaven chin, and Libby beat a retreat. Guy seemed to know as little about Susie as her old school mates in Exham.

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